


My Blogger’s New Girlfriend

by missilemuse



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abduction, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drama, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-28 22:10:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/312695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missilemuse/pseuds/missilemuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sarah, Holly, then someone in-between (damn!), and last but not the least, Jeanette. This time John Watson is determined to make it work. Sherlock may have other ideas but first, he has to figure out who she is.<br/>SPOILERS for 2.01.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS for 2.01- Written as a heart-felt tribute for Martin Freeman’s understated yet magnificent performance in 2.01. John held his own, even in the face of smouldering Irene and angsty Sherlock, and I decided he deserved some heart-felt attention. Please review!

John tiptoed into 221B, wanting nothing more than to reach his room without bumping into the the World’s only consultant detective. He hated sneaking around Sherlock like this but the cat and mouse game was paramount to his social life. After Jeanette and the Christmas fiasco, he was taking no chances.

It was the one thing they had both firmly agreed on. Sherlock would know about the relationship on their terms, not before then and certainly not as one of his throw-away deductions.

John had got hold of the shorter end of the stick when it had come down to the logistics of the deal. After all, he lived with the man. On the other hand, there were many upsides to his new 'relationship'. There were no long term expectations, no pressure and no demands on both sides. He could be Sherlock’s assistant first and still have a girlfriend. She didn’t begrudge him that. And the sex was mind-blowing!

Now if only Sherlock would stay in his room-

“John, clearly your efforts to tiptoe to your room are both clumsy and trite.”

He jumped out of his skin upon suddenly hearing the voice at his shoulder. He turned around and failed to control his fake nervous laugh. “What makes you think I was trying anything like that?”

Sherlock simply rolled his eyes. “The tread of your foot-steps on the staircase made it obvious. Usually you take the stairs two at a time, simply because it still pleases you that you can. Illogical, as the limp was psychosomatic. When you get the shopping, you stump up one step at a time. When you’re drunk, you tend to stagger and it takes you an average of 45 seconds to 2 minutes longer to make it up the stairs depending on your state of inebriation. This time was distinctly different.”

John spoke through clenched teeth, “Alright, well done you! As you so correctly _deduced_ , I would like to go to bed without you badgering me.”

But Sherlock only took one step closer, frowning, eyebrows knitting together,  _bit not good!_

“You’re hiding something from me. It can’t be work as you didn’t have a shift today. It can’t be your sister, as she still has you convinced of her sobriety. You were indoors for the duration of the evening as it drizzled a bit but your coat is perfectly dry. You do not smell of beer or the pub. Ah, your shoes, you were on a date!”

“Brilliant deduction,” John said grumpily.

“You’ve been on dates before. And yet you felt the need to hide this one from me. Why?”

John bristled at the implied treachery in the tone of his flat-mate's voice. “You cannot seriously be asking for a reason. Let’s see- because you got me and Sarah kidnapped on our first date and she broke up with me, or because you barged in on Holly and me in my room when we were about to shag, or hang on, maybe because you barged in again on me and Bree. Thankfully we had our clothes on but with **you** wearing nearly nothing that time… and," he couldn't really help the sarcastic laugh, "Have you already forgotten the Christmas party last month where you humiliated Jeanette?”

“Come on, John. They were all boring. You barely even remembered their names.”

It was like talking to a wall, one which could talk back. “Right, my mistake that I expected you to...understand.”

“You know what’s curious though is the extra effort you have gone to, to keep this from me. There’s a wet patch on your chest, where you must have dropped some food. But you have cleaned it carefully. So I can’t see what you were eating and determine where you were. I can’t smell her perfume on you though I can make out from your lips that you did kiss her. Your jacket appears freshly brushed to rid it of stray hair or fabric, interesting!”

“What…what’s interesting?”

“Had she been a stranger, you wouldn’t have had to go to such lengths to get me to back off. So this is a mutual acquaintance.”

_SHIT!_

“Goodnight John, you’re right, you really do need your rest," with these words, Sherlock spun on his feet and was gone before John could even begin to refute the assessment.

Once back in his room, John sent the text. They had known that they couldn’t hide this forever but three weeks was not too bad.

John: SOS. WE NEED TO TELL HIM ASAP.

Reply: :( IT’S GOING SO WELL. HE’LL JINX IT.

John: IT WON’T BE THAT BAD. HOPEFULLY!

Reply: TOMORROW EVENING THEN, PUB, USUAL TIME. GET HIS HIGHNESS ALONG.

John: GN 

But John wasn’t smiling as he erased the messages. One part of him was relieved that the sneaking around would be finally over. It was a pain to not share same toiletries, shower and brush after the slightest bit of snogging. The other part, quite simply put was already tired of the row that was sure to happen.

Next morning, Sherlock was unusually silent through tea, breakfast (his favourite- scrambled eggs made by John as a peace offering) and reading the paper. Finally, John had enough of the sense of foreboding creeping up his back. His voice was mild. “You sure are quiet today.”

“Why?” Sherlock flicked the pages of the newspaper exaggeratedly. “Do you wish to talk about something?”

“I thought you would be obsessing over the subject of my secret Girlfriend. Frankly, I’m surprised. I was expecting the Spanish Inquisition.”

“We are flat-mates, John. If you wish to conceal the identity of your current girlfriend for whatever reason, you have every right.”

John winced internally. _‘Flat-mates’._ Sherlock  _was_ taking this rather badly. And was that hurt in Sherlock's voice? _Be strong, Watson,_ he’s pressing your buttons. Remember Holly’s face as she ran out shrieking, or was it Bree? _Dammit!_ In any case, he deserves it!

“You are right, Sherlock, that is indeed very mature and considerate of you.” _(Oh God, now I’m talking like Mycroft!)_ “If you want to meet her, you can come out with us tonight.”

“I don’t need to. I already know who it is.”

“You do?” John groaned.

"Yes.”  He took a dramatic pause. “It’s Dr. Molly Hooper!”

John had opened his mouth to start shouting in vehement denial and just as abruptly clamped it shut.

“Don’t look at me like that. This is not a deduction per se, as I did not have enough data to work with. I had to rely on the process of elimination. After all, there are hardly any women we both know! It’s definitely not one of your exes as I wouldn’t care. It's not Sally Donovan as she slept with Anderson the day before yesterday and you have better taste. It’s not my brother’s assistant as she’s definitely a lesbian. Irene Adler is supposedly in America. It’s not that waitress down at the chip shop as you would never permit yourself to get involved with a married woman, even if she helps you- how did you put it- g _et off_ in your fantasies.”

John didn’t feel surprised that he had more of a reaction to Irene’s name being tossed out so casually than Sherlock did.

“…Then there was the way you were staring at Molly at the Christmas Party, only marginally less obvious than Lestrade, I’m afraid. She’s a doctor like you and fortunately for her, you are more of a soldier. So your protective instincts kicked in to take care of the damsel in distress. One thing led to another and- here we are.” He folded the paper with a flourish. “Am I right?”

John shook his head in disbelief. “If you don’t care about my exes, why would you care if it was Molly? And did you miss the part where you yourself deduced that Molly was in love with **_you_**.”

“I didn’t say, I cared,” Sherlock said very quickly. “In any case, the operative word is ‘was’. Over the last couple of weeks, I have found her attentions towards me… declining. She didn’t even fetch me coffee two days back when I specifically asked for it.”

“And the reason why Molly's giving you a cold shoulder can’t possibly be that you are a right git, as opposed to- we are shagging.”

“There’s no need to be so angry. Honestly, I think you are a vast improvement over Jim from I.T.”

“Ah, I see! Soooo, in conclusion- The only reason I have my supposed girlfriend is due to the combined efforts of Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty.” He couldn’t help that his voice had turned bitter.

“Well, when you put it that way…”

“Bye Sherlock!”

“John!”

“No.” The calm tone of his own voice surprised John. “You remember that subtext signal we talked about. You say one more word and this time you _will_ lose a tooth.”

It was when John had reached the bottom of the stairs that Sherlock yelled, “Was I right?”

He only heard the door slamming in reply.

***

10.00 a.m.

JOHN, I WILL ATTEMPT TO UNDERSTAND.

 

11.00 a.m.

I DIDN’T MEAN TO PRY.

 

12.00 p.m.

ALRIGHT I DID, BUT I WON'T HAVE TO TRY AND REMEMBER HER NAME THIS TIME.

 

2.00 p.m.

THIS IS RIDICULOUS. HOW CAN YOU STILL BE ANGRY?

 

3.00 p.m.

I DIDN’T EVEN MEAN IT THE WAY YOU INTERPRETED IT.

 

5.00 p.m.

JOHN, I GOT THE MILK AND BEANS.

 

John was grinning as he left the clinic while reading the last message. He loved making Sherlock squirm. So admittedly, he _was_ distracted when two blocks from the clinic, he was ambushed by four men.

 _'Oh, they are both going to be impossible!._ ' was his last thought as he succumbed to unconsciousness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guesses welcome!


	2. Chapter 2

 

5.30 p.m.

Sherlock’s phone buzzed. He was in the middle of an experiment. He checked the caller id and grumbled to himself as he remembered the pre-Woman days when it was routine to ignore his brother’s calls. But it had only been four weeks since Mycroft had risked his position to save his skin.

“Yes, your Majesty. What was so important that it couldn’t be texted?”

Mycroft sounded edgy, “Sherlock, John’s been abducted ten minutes ago about two blocks from the clinic. The surveillance footage of the kidnapping is already in your inbox. The GPS tracker on his phone has been activated. The signal is presently on the move towards Blackfriars. I have sent the car, ETA at Baker Street, one minute. It definitely isn’t Moriarty, too shoddy by half.” He took a pause. “I’m not in the country presently. Do not do anything rash, Sherlock. I have used a lot of favours cleaning up the last mess you made.”

Before Mycroft had finished speaking; Sherlock was ready to leave, laptop in hand, John’s gun snug at his hip. There were no snide asides, no arguments and no refusals. Mycroft hadn’t expected any, not where John Watson was concerned. But then, he hadn't expected any gratitude either.

“Is that all, Mycroft?”

“No. Taking into account the admirable self-restraint you displayed the last time someone close to you was attacked, I have already taken the precaution of passing the same information to D.I. Lestrade."

Sherlock snarled, “How dare you? You insufferable-”

“If threatening Mrs. Hudson makes you throw someone down a building repeatedly, I would rather not have to deal with the repercussions of letting you loose on John’s kidnappers.”

Sherlock cut the call, seething with fury while simultaneously gliding into the smooth leather seat of the car before it had completely stopped before 221B. “Go!” He commanded the driver viciously, all his attention focussed on the video in front of him. He ignored his brother’s assistant in the front seat, who was focussed on a laptop in addition to her usual phone, probably tracking the getaway car.

He smiled with pride as he watched John single-handedly take down two of his assailants, before a cloth was roughly forced over his face dropping him unconscious, chloroform- definitely not Jim, too pedestrian.

Then his smile disappeared as he watched his friend’s limp body being roughly manhandled into the back of a van. He took a deep breath as he forced himself to concentrate, picking out the relevant details, trying to forget that the victim in the video was John.

If Mycroft thought getting Lestrade to supervise him was enough, he had seriously underestimated Sherlock. By the time he was done with them, those two-bit thugs were going to regret ever laying a finger on John Watson.

He got out of the car which had stopped behind the compound of an abandoned factory. Lestrade was already there. _Damn you, Mycroft!_

“We have surrounded the building. The signal stopped in the driving lot. There’s a delivery van parked there, probably used for transport. We have to assume they are in the building.”

“What the hell is _she_ doing here?” Sherlock snarled, when his gaze fell on Molly, looking even smaller than usual, standing next to Lestrade’s squad car.

“We were all going out for a pint when your brother called. John was supposed to join us too. Your brother didn’t have to tell me how important it was for me to get here before you did. She tagged along. That’s not important right now. All the windows appear to be boarded up. They have not stationed any lookouts. They don’t seem to have any idea that we are already on to them. You have any clue, who it could be? Is it him, Moriarty?”

Sherlock lowered his voice as Molly was within ear-shot, one of the strange tics he seemed to have developed since his involuntary Christmas deduction. “Of course it isn’t him. Mycroft wouldn’t have been able to track him and the kidnapping was on video. This was done by an idiot.”

That was when Sherlock’s phone buzzed. He whipped it out- unknown number. His insides curdled with doubt. This couldn’t possibly be Jim’s work.

“Hello.” His heart-beat stuttered irrationally, expecting John’s voice reading a prepared script.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes," the voice was that of a stranger, unctous and vaguely familiar- did not sound like a terrified hostage. “Just wanted to let you know that I have your friend in my possession.”

“That was a mistake, Mr.-?”

“Let’s just say that I wish to remain anonymous. If you recall, my brother tried to engage your services a few months back to recover a very important file.”

A few months back, organized crime types, with a couple of minions in tow. He hadn’t even bothered to hear the details and they had kidnapped John in retaliation.

“I’m a Private Detective. I can refuse a case, if I see fit.”

“I think the exact word used was ‘boring’. So I decided to go ahead and make things interesting for you. I am not accustomed to being refused. So these are your options. You WILL recover that file for me and when you do, you will have your partner back in one piece. Or you can refuse and have him back in many little pieces- your call.”

The caller was definitely in a car on a road with heavy traffic, so not in the building. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth before answering in a deathly calm voice. “Of course, I’ll recover those files for you. But if there’s so much as a scratch on John when he's returned…well, you’re an imaginative man, so I’ll leave the consequences to your imagination. Email me the details. I’ll be in touch.” He cut the call.

“Alright,” Lestrade ordered after Sherlock had relayed the conversation to him, “Civilians stay here- that means you too, Sherlock. My people have surrounded the building and we are waiting for back-up. Let us do our job.”

“I have no intention whatsoever of interfering in your…  **WHAT ARE YOU DOING**?” Lestrade had swung Sherlock around and handcuffed his hands behind his back.  

Sherlock didn’t struggle. But if looks could kill, Lestrade would have been a pile of smouldering ash. “My brother will be extremely delighted to know that you complied with his instructions so thoroughly.”

“This is so that you don’t get one of my people, or John, killed in your enthusiasm. You are too close to this, Sherlock. You know I’m right. You can thank me later.”

“Very well, off you go then.”

But Lestrade didn’t leave till he had locked a handcuffed Sherlock in the back of his squad car for good measure. Sherlock found himself trying to undo the handcuffs behind his back, while sitting opposite a visibly nervous Molly Hooper. 

She tried to reassure him, “He’s right, you know.” he ignored her as the pin finally slipped out of his sleeve and he deftly manoeuvred it between the thumb and fore-finger of his right hand.

She tried again, “Don’t worry, John will be fine.” Sherlock’s stomach clenched against his will, as he heard the nervous ring in her voice.

“Of course, your boyfriend will be fine. They won’t harm him, now that I’ve agreed to recover their precious file.”

Molly stuttered, “What! Excuse me! My...what?”  Before Sherlock could wrap his head around her words, there was a clear sound of quiet footsteps approaching the back of the car. And fiddling of keys as the person tried one, then another. So, not Lestrade.

Sherlock’s hands were still restrained. He wondered if asking Molly to retrieve the gun tucked in his waistband would be overkill- the second key worked and the door swung open.

Sherlock’s jaw dropped open, as Sergeant Sally Donovan got into the car, her jaw fixed in a tense determined line as she fished out another set of keys from her pocket and started to unlock him.

“It’s YOU!” he hated that his voice sounded shocked. Who could blame him?  _What the hell was John thinking?_   “But how?”

“Really?” The sarcasm was missing its usual bite. “That’s what you want to discuss right now?” she turned to Molly while trying to haul Sherlock out, one handed. “Don’t warn him. You know what I’m doing is right.”

Molly bit her lip, gaze swivelling between both their faces, but nodded firmly before Sally shut the door on her.

“Okay genius,” she turned to Sherlock, all business. “So what’s the plan?”

“You go back to your team. I’ll take it from here.”

“Like hell!” She retorted. “I sprung you, remember? And don’t you always whine about needing an assistant. Today, you’ve got me to watch your back. Now talk.”

And just like that, Sherlock could see exactly what John had seen.

They sneaked into the compound of the factory together. The hardest part was sneaking past the cordon. But Sally went in first, sending off the plain-clothes cop stationed on the north side. As soon as the man’s back was turned, they made their way into the grounds through a gap in the chain-link fence. Sherlock then examined the ground around the parked vehicle, using the van as cover.

“He’s not in the building,” he announced within a minute.

“But the signal is still in the compound. We traced it. It hasn’t moved.”

He pointed towards the far side of the compound, where there was a squat, box-like structure, “There, in the garage, it’s the only explanation.”

If Sherlock would have stopped to think, he would have felt surprised at how well they worked together. But he didn’t.  _Save John first! Kill him for this betrayal later._

They determined that there were two men patrolling outside the garage. Sally’s tone was all business, “Right, I’m assuming that you’re carrying John’s gun.”

The gun had been their secret, _apparently not._  “I cannot use it till we are inside, so it’s essentially useless.”

Her voice was challenging now, “Think you can handle Mr. Green Boots on your own?”

Sherlock smirked, “Why? Did John tell you that he was the muscle in our arrangement? Meet you at the garage door in two minutes.” He turned to slink away before adding, “And Sally, your boy has had a recent left knee injury, just saying.”

One face-full of pepper-spray and a well-placed kick later, he was at the door. Sally was already waiting for him.

Aside from a small cut on the elbow, she looked unruffled. He scouted the garage exterior noiselessly and found an old ventilation duct. One minute for a peek. The room was consisted of a well-lit, open space with no vehicles. In one corner of the garage was John, hands and feet bound, lying on the floor, still unconscious, breathing steady, with no signs of external injury. Two men currently in the room seated on chairs five feet from the prone form. One smoking, the other…dozing, good!

He stepped back to face Sally and whispered, “Two more inside, armed.” She silently hefted an old drum towards the window to stand on and peek through herself.

“So, what next?”

“Now, I will walk to the door and knock. They will presume I’m one of their cohorts from outside. One of them opens the door. I take him down, and then shoot the other before he wakes up and gets to John. It’s the only way.”

She looked at him like he was a kid trying to speak complex words. “Okay, that’s it, gimme the gun.”

“What! Why?”

“Your plan is stupid, since it relies on the man in the room being too slow to hurt John. With John still out like a light, we cannot take that chance. So here’s what _I’m_ proposing. You knock on the door. One of them answers, and when you are taking him down, I shoot the other man through the duct. No chances, see?”

Sherlock eyed her doubtfully, though he could find no fault with the logic of her plan.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” she hissed. “I’m almost as good a shot as John is under controlled conditions, and shooting a man within a confined space less than ten feet from me is as controlled as it gets in real life. If you must know, that’s where he asked me out the first time, at the Met’s shooting range, where he had come with Lestrade to watch us practice. I  ** _can_**  do this without killing that man. We can finish this in five minutes.”

In the end, it took three. As Sherlock cracked Sally’s baton on the skull of the man who answered the door, he heard a perfectly timed shot go off inside the warehouse, followed by a cry and a thud. He slipped inside to see that the injured man wasn’t even trying to get to John. He was reduced to a screaming mass huddled on the floor from a well-placed flesh wound on his calf.

After ridding the man of his weapons, Sherlock had eyes only for John. He cut the zipties free with his pocket-knife and gently rolled his friend over. His vitals were fine with no external signs of injury, not even from the attack. He could hear Sally, Lestrade and his troops rush in behind him. But everything faded in the face of the fact that John was alive and fine.

Two hours later they were back at Baker Street. John had been checked over at the A & E in record time with Molly’s help with the consensus that he needed to sleep off whatever he had been given. Sherlock was not completely aware of everything that was happening, of how they came back, how between him, Sally and Lestrade, they had hauled John into Sherlock’s bed as it was easier, or when Lestrade left with vague admonitions of making him sorry for his actions later.

He was sitting with his violin on his chair, staring off into space and analysing his own reactions as Mycroft’s words echoed in his head,  _Caring is a mistake, Sherlock_.

Mycroft was right. John was completely fine and yet his heart seemed to be running a marathon, his mind on a loop. _John covered in Semtex at the Pool, John kneeling over helplessly as the American threatened him with a gun, John tied up in a warehouse unconscious_ , all to get to Sherlock. It was too much to hope that every time his abductors would be inept like today. Next time (and there was going to be a next time), someone could get really inventive and John would get hurt, badly. Maybe it would be kinder to shoot John himself. _What the fuck was he thinking?_

His morbid musings were interrupted as a cup of steaming tea was plonked down on the table in front of him and Sally Donovan took the chair opposite with a cup of her own. He felt an irrational urge to shove her off that chair, John’s chair.

She was eyeing him critically, her gaze narrowed. She sighed, “I can’t believe that you need  ** _me_**  to tell you this, but this was not your fault."

Sherlock’s voice was ruthlessly sarcastic. “Oh, really? The man who orchestrated the kidnapping had wanted me take a case for him. I had refused as I found the matter too boring for my attention. That was the only reason he needed to kidnap John, all for my attention. You are being sooo forgiving now as John was unharmed- in this instance. What about the next time, when someone carves him up or shoots him before we get there?”

She held his eyes as she firmly repeated, “It’s . Not . Your . Fault.”

He snorted feeling inexplicably lighter than before. “You don’t need to be nice to me for his sake. He’s already sleeping with you.”

“Is that what you think? Jesus! You _are_ screwed up.” She grinned. “I started thinking that you’re...well...less of a freak than I had thought, when John started writing his blog. He should rename that blog of his something like- ‘Normal person’s manual for interpretation of Sherlock Holmes’. The best part was his smile when I suggested that to him. To put it your way, he- sort of deduced you.”

“And you believed him.” Sherlock smiled self-deprecatingly.

“He worships you, you know. And that’s what the world sees. People think John Watson would do anything for Sherlock Holmes as he wears his heart on his sleeve. What they don’t see is that you would do anything for him too. Well, almost anything… letting him keep a girlfriend for more than two weeks doesn’t seem to fall in that category.”

“Is that why you made him keep your relationship a secret? Wore Anderson’s perfume to crime-scenes, had him flirt with you subtly so I would notice. For your information, I don’t go around sabotaging John’s relationships. He manages to do that, all on his own.”

His voice had risen unconsciously and there was suddenly an undecipherable sound from the other room. Both shot to their feet, Sherlock only one step behind Sally as she reached the bed. John was tossing restlessly. She patted his head with one hand and held his hand in the other as she whispered calmingly, “Shh…it’s alright… You’re alright.”

Sherlock had frozen in place, halfway to the bed, not knowing whether to stay or leave, when John’s eyes fluttered half open and fixed blearily on Sally’s face. “Sh…lock.”

“He’s right here,” she whispered soothingly, gesturing Sherlock forward, but his limbs seemed to have turned to lead as he remembered how he too had called out to John in a similar fashion, even half-aware as he had been of Irene’s presence in the room.

Then John twisted his head to fix him with an unfocussed gaze. His lips curved upwards in an attempt to smile as he thickly muttered, “Shlock…got…milk…” Then he closed his eyes and within seconds, he was fast asleep, snoring gently.

To his chagrin, Sherlock found that his room had turned blurry around the edges, even as his face split in a stupidly large grin. He turned around to beat a hasty exit, hoping Sally hadn’t seen his face do that, when her voice stopped him. “You should know that this is just a relationship of convenience. I’m not in love with him and he is certainly not in love with me, Sherlock.”

This was the first time, she had addressed him by his proper name in a very long time.

Sherlock turned around to retort in a low but scathing voice, “You don’t know what you’re saying. It is impossible to know John Watson and not fall in love with him.”

Her eyes were serene, twinkling. Strangely, she looked neither angry nor sad. “…And I always seem to go for a married man. That’s why, this works. Because I know that you will always come first. I knew that before I got into this 'relationship'. I know what I’m doing now.” She paused before adding defiantly, “I think, he’s worth it.”

Sherlock’s eyes softened at this statement but as Sally continued, her voice had a hint of steel. “So, for the record, I won't dump John because of you. BUT, if you ever tell him that he’s a massive improvement over Anderson, I promise, I’ll make you squeal like a little girl.”

***

Next morning, Sherlock amused himself as he watched John stare at him during breakfast as if he were a bomb, about to explode any minute. It was when he was completely hidden behind the newspaper that John worked up the courage to mutter, “Er…Sherlock, I …”

Sherlock lowered the paper instantly as he fixed his friend in a piercing gaze, while responding, “I assume that you wish to talk about Sally.”

His voice had been smooth, non-confrontational. But John leapt out of his chair like he had been electrocuted and started speaking in a great rush. “Look, I know she was absolutely horrible to you before and called you…names. But you can’t deny that you were equally worse, if not more. And then over the past few months, I noticed that she wasn’t calling you- names. And we got talking about the blog and she’s a really good shot too, and she admitted that she could have been mistaken about…you…and…now you’re smiling! Why are you smiling?”

Sherlock grinned as he turned his attention from John’s panicked face back to the paper. “It’s okay, John. As you once told me, it’s fine. It’s all fine.”

 

THE END…

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was written before S2, E3 was telecast. Despite Sally's role in Sherlock's 'Fall', I still nurse a healthy respect for her tenacity. But I would have probably not written this story if I had known the direction her role would take her (making my story an AU). It doesn't change the fact that I loved writing it. Please do review!


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